


Becoming

by lynnotline



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fix It Fic, M/M, Parent!lock, Spoilers for S4, The Final Problem Fix it, hurt/comort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 11:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13457466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnotline/pseuds/lynnotline
Summary: In which John and Sherlock talk after the events of The Final Problem and agree upon something.





	Becoming

**Becoming**

The flat was a mess but fortunately, John had a house.

Things felt heavy – everything was heavy. There was too much in the air to deal with at times, the shocking weight of the insane nightmare they’d just gone through. The bruising chain-cuts around John’s ankle caused him to limp as though he actually needed his cane and Sherlock was incredibly watchful. Rosie kept crying because her mother was gone and her father kept leaving her, why did he keep doing that?

And of course, there was Mary’s video.

 _What you two could become_.

John’s fingers shake as he stirs his tea and he closes his eyes, breathes deeply through his nose. _Could become_. He knows what that means – he’s known ever since he met Sherlock, known something there, between them, was new and different and precisely the only thing he’d ever want to think about again.

He recalls the brief smile that’d overtaken his face when he’d heard those words from Mary – her blessing, literally, and even though she’d shot the man once John would be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful for the go ahead.

Sherlock knows what it means, of course. He _has_ to. John doesn’t think he can talk Sherlock through this one without working himself into a state; he’s not sure why. There’s nothing _immediately_ pressing that might make John break down, but there’s only so much a man can go through – the death of his wife; the near death of his best friend; the ingenious, terrifying, secret sister of said best friend – without having to explain the finer, _personal_ details of romance to his best friend.

“Are you alright? The kettle’s boiled and you’re taking longer than usual.”

Sherlock’s standing in the doorway of John’s kitchen, Rosie hitched on his right side with one hand supporting her. She has a fist curled happily in his hair. Her chubby face glows when she sees John and she releases Sherlock’s hair at once, pats his cheek a couple times as a fairly obvious indicator of what she wants before releasing a series of gurgles. Sherlock makes a fond expression not dissimilar to Rosie’s when he glances from her giggling face to where John stands at the bench.

He walks over. “Swap? I’ll make the tea.”

John takes his daughter agreeably, popping his lips at her as she grabs for his mouth and giggles delightedly. John smiles, tired, but loving the weight and warmth of his daughter in his arms, the sweet smell springing from her hair.

Sherlock is pouring the second tea. He looks over. John can feel his cataloguing gaze.

“I’m okay, Sherlock,” he says, before Sherlock can ask. He picks up Rosie’s pacifier from the dinner table and starts suggesting it to her, gentle nudges toward her happy face and slow-blinking eyes.

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, resting both hands on the bench in front of him. He’s taken his coat off at some point, left only in his dark suit pants and white shirt. John can only think about that for a moment before he steps abruptly into Sherlock’s space and looks up to meet his gaze.

“Look, of course I’m not _great_ , Sherlock, because our flat is blown to hell and we’ve just gone through a _horror movie_ conducted by your secret sister, but, considering those things, yes, I _am_ doing okay.” A breath; careful controlled inhale. “I just want to put my daughter to bed and make sure she dreams of something lovely and then watch crap telly, alright?”

Predictably, Rosie’s started to make upset sounds at John’s hushed outburst so he turns half away, starts rocking her up and down just a bit. He feels Sherlock approach, the ghost of his breath across John’s hair, and then his incredibly gentle hand on John’s shoulder.

“Come on, then.” John glances up to see Sherlock smile softly. “I don’t think I’ve even seen dear Rosie’s room yet.”

*

It’s late, so Rosie takes the pacifier without complaint and soon enough she’s dozing in John’s arms, head lolling on his shoulder. Sherlock’s watching her with rapt attention even though she’s merely doing perfectly ordinary infant things, drooling and gurgling and grasping with her tiny hands as John gently lowers her into her crib. He thinks proudly, of course his daughter would be one of the things in this world to utterly bewitch Sherlock Holmes.

John breathes a sigh of relief as he nestles Rosie into her blankets. Though her eyes are closed and her face is slack, a small hand comes up and curls weakly around John’s collar just as he attempts pulling away and he freezes, desperate not to wake her.

Sherlock tuts. “Come now, Watson,” he whispers, and it takes John a moment to realise he means Rosie. Sherlock shifts closer, the crib not very long so John’s side prickles in awareness of his proximity, and leans down slightly. Sherlock tugs John’s collar from her grip carefully, replacing it with the edge of the blanket every movement of the way until John is free and stands upright.

Sherlock brushes Rosie’s hair from her forehead, his long pale fingers so gentle with her. John catches Sherlock’s fascinated smile before he breathes, “There we go. You mustn’t be keeping your father tonight, Rosie, he is in need of a well-deserved rest. Our tea will get cold.”

An immeasurable warmth swells in John’s chest watching Sherlock coo over his daughter, a feeling far too big and deep to name. His breath is beginning to shake again, and he’s thinking in a fractured repeat, _what we could become_.

Sherlock straightens and looks at John, and something wonderful happens in his eyes, to his face, when he sees John’s expression, a sort of magic trick that is dependent on the light and makes John feel as though he is luminescent. Sherlock steps immediately closer, into John’s space, drawn forward.

“Sherlock,” John says, in a soft, slightly stunned voice. He’s uncertain of what he wants to say next but certain that Sherlock’s mind is whirring, frantic with possibilities of the next few minutes. John feels unbearably shy all of a sudden, because this is _Sherlock_ , his best friend, and he’s always felt this _thing_ but he never imagined it would come to fruition in any way. He’s never even _imagined_ this far; now that it’s here, he has no clue what to do.

 John drops his gaze because it’s easier to control his face that way, and he also feels a bit absurd at the severity of the angle he has to tilt his head up to in order to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Heat creeps up his neck.

“You’re wonderful with Rosie,” John mumbles to Sherlock’s chest instead of anything else, noting how close they are when he can feel the warmth of his own breath bouncing back to him. “God, she’s going to adore you when she’s older.”

Sherlock’s fingers touch John’s cheek lightly and they both let out a sharp breath, John’s eyes darting up instantly. Sherlock looks shocked and absolutely lovely, softly touching John’s face and his head angled down, curls falling over his forehead.

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, so quietly John feels the timbre of his voice more than he even hears it. “Just because she said in her video, just because Mary acknowledged– I don’t want you to feel-”

John is already shaking his head. Sherlock seems grateful for the reason to stop talking, which is out of character. He can feel the faintest tremble in Sherlock’s fingers where they touch John. John’s shaking again, his breaths deep and hurting his chest.

“Her permission,” he says purposefully, holding his gaze with Sherlock, “has nothing to do with– this.” John swallows, feels Sherlock’s careful fingers against his cheek, takes in the graceful arch of his neck and the shallow movement of his chest. “With us. It’s about _us_ , it always has been, so you don’t have to. Worry, or–”

John cuts himself off, because he can barely stand to hear the words he’s saying, let alone continue saying them. He’s told Sherlock, he’s not _good_ at this sort of stuff, but he knows he needs to barrel on or he’ll lose his nerve.

“Everything,” John says, but it comes out as a whisper, so he tries again. “ _Everything_ is mutual, Sherlock, okay? Everything.”

John doesn’t actually know the state of Sherlock’s feelings for him, only his own, which in this case is actually an advantage. Whatever Sherlock is willing to give, John is willing to take.

Sherlock stares, blinking and processing this as he watches John’s face openly. John allows him the time he needs, not any longer than a minute, and then Sherlock nods once, dropping his hand but not moving back at all.

The finer points of John’s cheek feel scalded, skin pinging like points on a radar in its hyperawareness. He clears his throat and looks at the ground.

“Our, ah, our tea will be getting cold.” He sneaks a glance, can’t help it, and Sherlock smiles the instant their eyes meet. He looks like he’s blushing and John abruptly feels like a teenager, self-conscious and foolhardy. “Some crap telly, then?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I posted a little bit of this on my tumblr when I was in the process of writing it. It's not too different from the final product here, plus this is a lot longer. I also have n o c l u e why this took me so damn long to post after season 4 actually happened. Anyway, better late than never?  
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://ultraradstudentprincess.tumblr.com/)


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